Your erotic stories

You know the saying—and I'm sure I date myself by saying this—"I want to marry a girl like the one that married Dad?" Well, that holds true for me. I come from a big, traditional Italian family—Dad worked and was head of the house, Mom was at home in the kitchen (and pregnant for the most part). We didn't have much money, but we were never hungry, and because there were seven kids, we had a lot of fun. I always assumed that when I got married, I would have the same kind of family. I loved kids, and secretly, I looked forward to having an ever pregnant wife.

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I have just finished two long days of wheeling and dealing in Wilmington, Delaware. Before driving home to Philly, I decide to unwind, enjoy a little repast as I wait for the rush hour traffic on 95 to ease. So at 5:45 I enter the Green Room of the Hotel du Pont and am seated in the plush dinning room at a table for two quickly transpose to a table for one.

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Shortly after I turned thirty-nine my mother died suddenly of a coronary thrombosis. Dad had died seven years earlier. So since my brother Kenny, a journalist and my only sibling, was living in London at the time, and my daughter was in her second year of college, I was left alone with the task of going through my mother's things and deciding what should be kept and what should be thrown away.

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